On A Beautiful Day in LA
by Keesha
Summary: On a beautiful day in LA, a moment of distraction led to an untenable situation; all because Sam goaded him into buying a new pair of running shoes. Set in season three post 3-15.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. These are someone else's toys that I played with for a bit then put neatly back on the shelf.

This is a multi-chapter story that started out as a little fluff piece but morphed into a longer story when a bad guy muscled his way into the plot line. There are some references to past episodes (no real spoilers) and a few lines that tie back to other stories I wrote (none are a required read but feel free to read later if you are bored). As with most of my stories there is a lot of dialogue (I love exploring characters thru speech), not as much action (looks great in my mind, looks horrid when translated to 1s & 0s) and some humor (well at least I thought it was funny). The mistakes are my own (my dog sucks at proof reading) and I will correct them as I find them (except for fragments which I believe are a necessary evil).

The two agents had been sitting in the sweltering parking lot for more than ten minutes, repetitively rehashing the same discussion and Sam was ready to strangle his stubborn, infuriating partner.

"Do I really have to go in? Can't I wait in the car?" Callen complained for the 99th time while glaring at the huge sporting goods store over the dash of the sleek black Challenger.

"You want me to go in there for you? Alone? And do it?" his partner asked incredulously turning to stare at his trying partner.

"Yep," Callen replied with the utmost sincerity.

Sam wanted to reach out and smack someone, namely his exasperating partner. "That's not gonna happen G. Trust me. Besides, it won't kill you to go in the store."

Callen shrugged in that maddening manner he had when he was making a point, at someone else's expense. "It might. You don't know that for sure."

Sam took a deep calming breath, reminding himself that violence was not the answer. "Look, you need a new pair of running shoes. This," he said waving his well-muscled arm towards the mega-store, "is a great place to buy them."

"Why's that? And for that matter, what's wrong with my sneakers?" the shorter blond parried.

Sam snorted decisively. "Those so called sneakers of yours are dirty, smelly and have more holes than your body!"

"Hey, watch it," Callen warned crossing his arms across his chest, glowering at his partner.

"And," Sam continued studiously ignoring him, "This is a great store because of price and selection. I buy all my sneakers here."

"And that's supposed to convince me?" Callen cocked his head to the side. "Do they carry normal sizes?" he asked in an innocent, yet accusing, tone.

"Are you saying my feet are big?"

"I didn't say that." Callen pursued his lips and gave a little shrug. "I'm just saying…," raising his eye brows to finish his sentence. The two alpha males stared at each other for a few seconds before Callen broke the contest. "What about salespeople?"

"What about them?" Sam asked suspiciously wondering where his partner was going with this line of questioning.

"Do they have them?"

"Yeh."

"Well, that settles it," Callen said firmly, settling back into his car seat. "I'm definitely not going in. Hate salespeople. They hover. I don't like being helped."

"You can't be helped," Sam muttered sarcastically.

Callen turned back towards his partner, quirking an eyebrow. "Was that a dig Sam?"

Sam just smiled sweetly but neither confirmed or denied his comment's intention. Deciding to change tactics he asked, "So where did you buy your last pair of running shoes? I'll bet you don't even know. Probably found them in a dumpster on a raid."

Callen glanced away, momentarily distracted. 'Where did I get these sneakers?' he silently wondered looking down at the items in question. He had no clue. Buying clothes, or anything for that matter, was not his thing. When it came to clothes, he owned the basics, in the required quantities, to last about two weeks. Then after a mass washing, he was good to go again; simple and easy. As for shoes, one pair of sneakers for running, one pair of boots for work and he was a happy camper. Typically, the only time he 'dressed up' was when he was on assignment and then Hetty supplied his outfits. Kind of like a mother or at least what he thought a mother should be like; as an orphan, raised in California's foster care system, the concept of 'mother' was somewhat foreign to him.

Sam settled back in his car seat enjoying the current state of this conversation; he had Callen on the ropes, which was not an easy feat. In a minute he'd go in for the KO, but it was too much fun at the moment to watch his partner struggling to figure out the mystery of his sneakers. He decided to let G sweat it out, especially since Sam knew exactly where and when the sneakers in question had been purchased. Sparring, whether verbal or physical, was all about timing and when the time was right, Sam planned to slam his partner, without mercy, to the mat.

Since Callen couldn't remember where his running shoes had come from he circled back to an earlier position and re-attacked. "Doesn't matter. This store has salespeople. You already admitted that and I hate being waited on and I'm not going in!" he concluded sounding a bit like a petulant child. While he was speaking, he watched Sam's grin grow bigger; if it got any larger, Callen thought, it would split his partners' face. 'Damn,' he silently cursed. His smug partner knew something he didn't and Sam was not sharing…yet. Another silence settled over the car with Sam grinning from ear to ear and Callen warily staring at him.

Finally, Sam pounced. "Ha! I didn't say what the salespeople did. They don't wait on you, they only ring up sales. You will not be helped by anyone and that includes me! You and your sorry ass can go into that store and find sneakers all…by…your…self!"

Never one to be outmaneuvered for long, Callen quickly rebutted, "But, if no one helps me, how am I gonna know what size I need to buy?"

Trying to one-up his partner was like trying to hang on to a slippery eel, possible but not probable. Sam wondered how much trouble he'd get in if he tossed Callen out of the Dodge and 'accidentally' ran him over. Probably be a lot of paperwork and he'd also have to break-in a new partner which was never fun. So he sighed and kept at it. "Hold your nose and look inside those disgusting things you're wearing; size is on the tongue."

Reaching down, G did as directed. "Nope. Sorry. Worn off. Guess this is not gonna work after all," he smirked leaning back in his seat.

"Ha!" Sam said again.

"Really Sam, two 'ha's' in one conversation?" Callen drolly pointed.

"Ha," Sam said again, just for good measure. "First, they have these little metal rulers all over the store that measure your feet so you can figure out yourself what size to buy and," Sam continued holding up a finger to stop his partner from interrupting, "second, Michelle bought your last pair of sneakers as a Xmas gift three years ago. She has an excellent memory and told me your size, which, for those playing along, is a 10, normal width. That is probably the only thing normal about you." Sam's mega-watt smile showed just how pleased he was with himself. "The only reason my wife bought your last pair of sneakers was she didn't want you in our house, around my daughter, in your previous pair. They were almost as revolting as those things on your feet now."

"Does she want to buy me another pair? Say late Christmas, early birthday, 'cause I'm down with that," Callen said eagerly. "These," raising his foot and placing it on the Challenger's dashboard, "have worked out real well."

Sam irritably reached over and swatted the offending object from his pristine instrument panel. "Get that mangy object off my dash. It's bad enough I find your lollipop papers all over my car."

"So you can practice your origami; my wrappers are helping you de-stress," Callen explained reasonably sensing the tide of the conversation reversing in his favor. "So let me get this straight. You're telling me this whole shoe buying expedition is your wife's doing so my sneakers don't deface your house or traumatize your kid?"

"Good try but no. And for the record, my wife has no desire to buy you anything," Sam retorted.

"Then we seem to be at an impasse. Say, I got an idea. Let's have an early lunch. I could go for a Double-Double, fries and maybe one of those Neapolitan shakes only we real fans know about."

"You eat all that and you're gonna need two new pairs of sneakers to run off those extra pounds," Sam said reaching over and slapping G's torso.

"Come on," G cajoled. "I'm starving."

Sam was tired of this game so he threw out his trump card. "Hetty," he said succinctly

This was a surprising twist in the conversation and Callen was taken back. "Hetty?"

"Hetty," Sam said haughtily. "Hetty told me to make you buy new sneakers. Our Boss, like my wife, does not want your crappy shoes in her Ops Center. Now, get out of this car, into that store and buy the damn sneakers or I will drag you from that seat, throw you over my shoulder and carry you into the store." Callen looked like he was going to say something but Sam cut him off. "Don't tempt me. You know I'm more scared of Hetty ripping me a new one than anything you can do to me."

Callen sighed as he opened the car door. "Alright but don't blame me if this leads to some sort of disaster."

"What kind of disaster could happen while buying a pair of shoes?" Sam questioned as the two strolled towards the store. However, in the back of his mind he believed if something could happen it would happen to his trouble-prone partner; misfortune targeted Callen like a heat-seeking missile.

"I don't know, something," Callen replied vaguely before switching gears again. "What if they are used? Like someone already tried them on and left a fungal disease in them?"

"Believe me G. If your feet can survive your current shoes they can survive anything."

"Still, I'm just saying…"

"Shut up and move faster."

Callen shrugged, walked through the automatic doors of the sporting goods store and then came to an abrupt halt causing Sam to nearly bowl him over. Catching his balance, he let out a low whistle as he eyed the rows and rows of racks. "This place is huge!"

"To the left, four aisles over, under the big sign that says 'Men's Running Shoes'. Move it!" Sam said shoving him.

Callen glanced up at his taller friend, noting the no-nonsense look on his face and swiftly decided he'd better comply. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to purchase a new pair of sneakers, he contemplated. His old ones really were kind of gross.

Ambling over to the indicated area, he scanned the stacks upon stacks of shoeboxes which stretched from floor to ceiling with 'samples' on little shelves. "Damn," he cursed. How the hell was he supposed to pick out a pair of sneakers from such a huge selection? He started to sweat and began working on an exit strategy when his phone vibrated and 'Hetty' came up on the screen. Turning a wary eye to his partner, he reluctantly pressed the speaker button. "Hetty?"

"Mr. Callen. Good, you made it into the store."

"How does she know that? You wired?" Callen mouthed to Sam who simply shook his head 'no'.

"Now, I imagine you are a bit overwhelmed by the selection so I took the liberty of doing a little research for you."

"You researched my sneakers?" Callen said, his eyebrows launching themselves upward like a rocket on the way the moon.

"But of course, Mr. Callen. I have researched a lot of clothes and shoes in my position. After all, have I not shod you many times for an Op? You can't do your best undercover work if you are not dressed properly and if your feet aren't comfortable." Callen rolled his eyes as Hetty continued, "Now, you are an over-pronator so you'll want a sneaker that offers motion control. Based on your current pair, we know that New Balance's fits so we'll use that as a starting point. They're also fairly stylish."

"In case you are wondering, that mean my wife has good taste since she bought your last pair," Sam translated. "You have no style."

"Sam," he growled softly.

"So I recommend the New Balance 890 V3," Hetty continued ignoring the subtext. "It is a lightweight shoe, which I think you will enjoy and comes in a few color choices. Personally, I think the purple is very Lady GaGa. The blue could be adventurous, but you'll probably prefer the boring grey. Though," she cautioned, "you should keep in mind that the grey will show the dirt."

Sam started snickering around the word purple and was at a full chortle by dirt. "Wipe that smile off your face Sam or so help me I will," Callen threatened.

"You need to go over one aisle, midway down. The sizes are on the shelf in numerical order," Hetty instructed.

Callen obediently moved in the direction indicated by his Boss with Sam following behind, laughing. "Bet she knows your underwear size and preference too G."

"As do I yours, Mr. Hanna," the Ops mangers voice drifted out of the phone. Now it was Callen's turn to snicker. Arriving at the correct area, the agent quickly scanned the shelves, grabbed a box, color-grey, size-ten, width-normal and turned towards the checkout.

"Not so fast, Mr. Callen. You must try them on to see how they feel," the disembodied voice scolded. "Both of them," she added for good measure.

"Really, Hetty?" he whined.

"Really, Mr. Callen. And I do hope your socks are clean and without holes."

"Not a word Sam," Callen said through clenched teeth. Plopping on the little bench in the center of the aisle, he removed the lid from the box. Digging through the wads of paper, he finally found the sneakers then groaned. "They're not laced up."

"That is how they come from the manufacturer, but it is a good sign since it means you are the first to try them on… no fungus worries," Hetty happily informed him. Callen glanced at Sam as if to say 'how did she hear his earlier remark in the car'?

"No diseases," Sam explained as he watched his partner sit there with the shoe in his lap. "What's a matter G? Never learned how to tie your shoes? Kindergarten skill I think," Sam needled. "Though, I don't picture you as a sandals and Velcro guy like Deeks."

"Tying shoes is one thing. This is lacing. Totally different." Callen stared unhappily at the unlaced sneaker in his lap.

"You can rewire a toaster but not lace a pair of sneakers? Bet you wish the store had salespeople now," Sam mocked. "Do you know, in a store where they help you, the salespeople pre-lace the shoes?"

Callen shoved the offending object back in the box and rapidly stood up. "I changed my mind. Let's go to one of those stores."

Sam reached over and slammed his partner back down on the bench. "Sit down, shut up, and give me one of those damn sneakers. I'll lace it up," he commanded ripping the sneaker from Callen's hand. "Geesh, you are worse than my daughter."

"You know," Callen noted watching Sam expertly lace the shoe, "that is like the third shut up of this trip. My feelings are hurt."

"You have no feelings. Here," Sam said thrusting the now laced sneaker back at his partner and grabbing the other one. "Put that on. Do I need to tell you which foot?"

"And take the paper out of the toe," Hetty added. The men had temporarily forgotten their fearless leader was still on the phone.

"Why is there paper in the… oh never mind," Callen remarked doing as he was instructed before shoving his foot into the right shoe. Sam handed him the left and he quickly donned that too.

"Now walk around a bit," Sam demanded.

"Why should I walk around if they are running shoes?" Callen quipped.

"G," he snarled and Callen humored him by walking up and down the aisle several times.

"How do they feel?" Hetty's voice inquired.

"They feel like running shoes."

"No pinching? Arch hit you in the right place? Plenty of toe room?"

"What if I say they don't feel good?" Callen asked out of curiosity.

"Then, Mr. Callen, we try on another pair and another until we find just the right one."

"Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears," Sam added. "Though this fairy tale may not have a happy ending."

Callen threw Sam a dirty look, who grinned, clearly pleased his last witty remark.

Callen sighed. At this point he figured he had two options; say the sneakers did not feel right and spend the next two hours being forced by his over-sized partner and little ninja cohort to try on every sneaker in the store. Or he could say these felt good and hopefully be allowed to leave. Looking down at the grey sneakers he decided nothing hurt, pinched or otherwise bothered him. These would do as well as any. "They feel great Hetty. I love them. Don't know how I lived so long without them," he informed her only slightly attempting to keep his sarcasm at bay.

"And a bed, and chairs, and a table, and…" Sam tacked on.

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm Mr. Callen?" Hetty's voice inquired

"Absolutely not," Callen lied. "That was all Sam."

"Hmmmm. If you are sure…"

"Very!"

"…then I had Mr. Beale forward a $10-dollar-off coupon to your phone."

"Really Hetty?" Callen groaned.

"There is nothing wrong with saving money. Perhaps someday you will want to furnish your house."

Part of being a good operative was to know when to retreat and now was a very good moment. "On my way to the checkout, with the sneakers and the coupon," he reported. "Your faithful watchdog Sam is trailing behind and can attest to my actions. Not," he added under his breath, "that you probably aren't watching in real time thanks to the magic of Eric and Nell."

"I heard that Mr. Callen."

"As I knew you would Hetty," he replied. "I'm in line, at the checkout, can I hang up now Boss?"

"While you are in the store, do you need any socks? Perhaps shorts or sweatpants? They are having a wonderful sale on…"

"Hetty!"

As a good manager, it was her job to know when her agents were stressed and need to be removed from a situation. She deemed Mr. Callen, who could handle being surrounded by thugs, out-manned, out-gunned and still remain cool, was on the verge of losing it over the purchase of a simple pair of sneakers. Deciding the main mission had been completed; she would cut her losses and return her agents to the fold. After all, she did know his pants, shirt, socks and yes underwear size so she could always take care of those items herself, if need be. "Yes Mr. Callen, I think we are done."

"Hooyah," responded Sam with the traditional Navy SEAL battle cry.

"Hanging up now Hetty," Callen said as he shot Sam his 100th dirty look of the shopping trip. Being somewhat pre-occupied, he missed the fleeting look of surprise and recognition by a man standing near the exit.

"Can we please go and get something to eat? This has been very stressful and I need sustenance to recover," Callen begged Sam as he handed his credit card and showed the coupon on his phone to the salesclerk.

"Sure, I know a nice organic café just around the corner."

"No way," Callen replied signing the receipt and accepting the bag. "I've been good. I deserve a treat."

"You categorize your behavior on this trip as good?" Sam questioned as they headed through the door.

"We accomplished the mission," he answered holding the bag aloft and giving it a little shake. "No one got injured, so yeah, I'd say it was good."

"You're impossible G."

"And you love me for it," Callen answered tilting his head to the left and grinning. Sam gave him a good-natured swat on the arm as they headed for the Challenger. "So In and Out it is," Callen concluded.

The two men kept up their friendly bickering all the way to the car, neither noticing the nearby customer, the one who had been observing them, had stepped out the door and was watching them drive away.


	2. Chapter 2

This is one of those necessary chapters to move the plot along. Short but required to set up the rest of the story.

His life had been rough growing up. His father had died of an overdose when he was twelve-years-old. After his Dad's death, his mother had whored herself out to pay for her habit leaving, he and his brother, to raise themselves with only each other to rely on.

Life hadn't always been such a disaster; in fact, they had been the typical American family until the dot-com crash. They had been a family of four with a residence in a nice suburbia neighborhood, 6000 square feet of living space, two new cars, good schools, country club membership and of course the beloved Golden Retriever; then it all went away. The company his father had built during the heyday of the dot-com frenzy went bust. His father, use to calling the shot, found he could not adjust to working for someone else; his boss was always an idiot his father claimed when he was fired. Not able to work for anyone else and incapable of coming up with the 'next great idea' to pull them out of debt, his father had drifted into the world of alcoholism and drugs. At that point everything slowly went away; the house, the cars, the country club, even the dog. After they lost the house they moved south, ending up in a bad tenement in one of the worse sections of LA. His father continued his pattern of being hired and fired from dozens of meaningless jobs, finally ending up supporting his habit by working for the local drug lords. But a bad batch of heroin killed him, leaving a wife with no skills and two underage sons. That was the life and times of his father.

His mother, who had always been totally dependent on his father, couldn't handle life on her own. Swearing she wouldn't, but unable to cope, she too wandered down the path of addiction. At first she only drank to keep her husband company; he got mad if he had to drink alone she claimed. Then it was the drugs under the same excuse; keeping her husband happy. Joel knew it was a lie but he was only a kid, what was he supposed to do? His mother was a very attractive woman, but she had no job skills, having married his father young and quickly getting pregnant with his brother. She too ended up getting involved with the gangs to feed her habit after her husband's death. Joel hated thinking about the services she offered them. Such was his mother's tale.

Joel and his older brother Jake had made a pact not to get caught in the same web as their parents. They did the best they could to survive the terrible environment in which they were raised. They regularly attended school and in fact used it as a sanctuary to escape their home life. They found other places to hide out, particularly if it was a bad scene on the home front. Some days things were fairly good with food on the table and their parents reasonably sober and drug free; then the pendulum would swing back the other way and the apartment would turn into a horrendous scene that made the boys head for the hills. After his father died and his mother hooked up with the gang to feed her needs, the boys were totally forgotten, left to their own devises; the only thing their mother was able to provide was a roof over their heads…barely.

Jake and Joel were not dumb and knew they had to have a plan if they wanted to survive and escape to a better life. Their strategy was for Jake, who was one year older than Joel, to graduate high school and enter the Navy; Joel would join him a year later, after he graduated. They would learn a trade in the Navy, one that led to a career for when they got out. It would be a new life, a fresh start for them; the problem was it didn't work out like they planned.


	3. Chapter 3

As a reward for sloshing thru the last chapter with none of our heroes present, this chapter has at least one of returning.

It had been a rough case; the team had gotten the bad guy, but not before innocent a bystander was injured. Callen detested when that happened and afterwards he would replay the case in his mind, over and over, trying to see if there was something he could have done to prevent the tragedy. Sleep had eluded him for most of the night while he pondered the closed case. When the horizon started to lighten and he was already awake, he decided to take a run before heading into the office; maybe it would help clear his head. His new sneakers were still in their box, in the bag, sitting on his floor. He supposed he'd better break them in before his ninja boss and her muscle-bound cohort noticed he hadn't worn them yet. He was sure there would be some sort of retaliation and frankly he was not at all curious to find out what it might be; Hetty was diabolical when it came to getting even. Round one, buying the sneakers had been traumatic enough; he really did not want to see round two.

Digging them out of the box, he slid them on his feet and tied them up. Boy were the laces long, he mused. Why'd they put such long laces on a pair of sneakers? His mind, always looking for the angle, determined he had enough leftover lace to tie someone up. Not that he was paranoid, but he couldn't help wondering if this was some new secret weapon of Hetty's namely, shoe handcuffs. Shaking his head, he made a big floppy bow and then to cut down on the overhang, double-knotted the loops. The laces still seemed a bit long to him but he didn't know what else to do so he ignored them and headed outside.

When he got outdoors he saw that dawn had barely broken and he contemplated a jog through his neighborhood but then, since it was turning out to be such a beautiful day, he changed his mind got in his car and headed for the beach. At this time of the morning it would be easy to find parking along the ocean. Besides, he rationalized as he drove away, if his new sneakers hurt he could take them off and finish his jog barefooted along the sea's edge.

After parking in a small lot, he got out the car and did a few stretches to loosen his muscles. It was shaping up to be a warm day and for a second he debated about leaving his t-shirt in the car and jogging in only his shorts. Then he remembered the last time he tried that, and quickly nixed the idea; apparently five bullet holes and a few additional assorted scars were considered unusual in LA. Hard to believe that his scars were more interesting than the piercings, tattoos and supplementary paraphernalia that others sported. But his scars had attracted too much unwanted attention last time, so he decided not to forgo his shirt and deal with the heat.

Starting out slowly, he headed north up the trail, gradually picking up speed until he attained a respectable pace. It was a beautiful day in LA and the early morning surfers were out in force on the spectacular white crested waves. Since it was early, the jogging path was relative free of other runners. Callen allowed himself to be lulled into a light trance that was driven by the rhythmic slap of his new sneakers on the path. The agent was probably about 2 miles into his constitutional when the cadence of his run was disturbed by an unharmonious note. The slap-slap of his soles pounding the pavement was accentuated by a new a swishing sound. Looking down, he saw that his stupid laces had come untied. Sighing, he stopped and attended to the arrant objects. While tying them, he once again wondered why they were so long. If he had a knife on him he would have cut the dumb things but he didn't so he re-tied them and then double knotted the droopy bunny ears. Damned if he knew how they had undone them the first time. With his laces firmly secured, he hoped, he resumed his run.

At the 3 ½ mile mark, the slippery devils once again freed themselves from captivity requiring another stop and tie session. When it occurred again at the 4th mile, Callen was seriously contemplating taking them off, ditching them in the nearest trash receptacle and finishing his run bare-footed. But a hand on the blacktop path told him that would be stupid move on this hot day, so he re-knotted the laces and convinced himself it was only a one mile back to the car; surely they could stay tied for that long. He spent that last long mile cursing Hetty, Sam, Michelle, the manufacturer of the sneakers, the company that made the laces and anyone else he could think of that might be associated with these eel-like devices.

Arriving at his black car, he noted that there were a few more automobiles than when he had first parked. Glancing down at his feet, he cursed; the damn laces were untied again. Preoccupied by his wayward laces, Callen failed to notice the gentleman passing within ten feet of him until he felt two barbs sink into his skin and he found himself face-down on the blacktop, incapacitated by a Taser. Callen was unable to control his muscles and his assailant was able to easily approach the fallen agent and jab a syringe in the side of his neck. The world grew fuzzy and out-of-focus and soon Callen was unconscious.

His captive quickly zip-tied the agent's hands behind his back then patted him down discovering Callen's wallet, keys, phone and weapon. A quick perusal of the wallet showed a small amount of cash, a few credit cards and a driver's license in the name of Tom Chapman. Opening the car door using Callen's key fob, the man tossed the wallet, gun and phone onto the passenger-side floor before relocking the Mercedes. The keys he stuffed into his own pocket.

Half carrying, half dragging the prone man across the asphalt, he headed for his vehicle where he proceeded to manhandle Callen in the trunk. Slamming it with more force than was necessary, the captor quickly glanced around to see if his actions had been noticed by any passersby. Deciding that the coast was clear, he climbed in his car and drove away.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking was definitely not fun. He was scraped from being dragged across the asphalt, bruised from being stuffed into a trunk and whatever his assailant had injected into him left him dizzy and nauseated; this did not seem like a particularly good way to start what he assumed was going to be a hostage situation. Instead of giving in to his discomfort, the agent told his stomach to knock it off while he partially opened his eyes to peer around and ascertain his circumstances. The five-sense-rule-of-capture went thru his mind. What can I see; large room, open floor plan, residential, sparse furniture, clean and neat. What can I hear; TV set to CNN, boat horn, little traffic noise, and echoes. What can I feel; hands restrained behind back with plastic cuffs, feet unbound, lying on hardwood floor, cuts and scrapes but no major trauma. What can I taste; metallic flavor in mouth but no blood. What can I smell; left over Italian. Putting it all together, he formulated his first guess; he was in a mid-priced apartment with high ceilings, by a marina, probably inhabited by a single or divorced, who is or was in the military, did more take out than cooking and considered the apartment a place to live but not a home.

Having learned all he could so far, he decided to open his eyes all the way and fully engage in the game. Upon doing that, the first thing he noticed was his captor was a male who was sitting in an arm chair staring at him and, Callen added to his growing situational list, was armed. Callen studied the fit man from his position on the floor, while trying to decide how to best handle the situation. His observations lead him to believe his captive was indeed military, could handle a gun and was pissed at someone, probably him. 'Great', he thought. Deciding to go direct, he authoritatively asked, "Wanna tell me what this is about?

"It's very simple," the man replied. "You killed my brother and now I am going to kill you."


	5. Chapter 5

At 9:30 the next morning, Kensi and Sam were already at their desks, scarfing down a breakfast burrito and reading the newspaper respectively, when Deeks sauntered into the bullpen. "What a great day," he exclaimed flinging is fashionably messy blond locks out of his eyes. "Perfect waves. You missed it Kenz," he added as he attempted to steal a piece of Kensi's breakfast.

"I missed nothing," she retorted slapping his thieving hand away. "It's already like 96 degrees out there."

"So?" he asked puzzled as he dropped into his chair and gave it a little twirl to face her.

"So! Why would I want to be out in that heat surfing when I can be inside, with air conditioning, eating breakfast?"

"But it's surfing!" he replied like she was too dumb to get it. "Sur-fing."

Kensi snorted, rolled her eyes and took another bite out of her wrap.

"And," he countered, "The ocean is cool."

"And sticky, in case you haven't noticed though knowing your hygienic habits you probably haven't noticed."

Deeks ran a hand through his hair which did nothing but make him look more like Shaggy. "The water is sticky? Water is not sticky." Bounding from his chair to the edge of her desk and making another pass at her burrito he said, "Keep eating like I won't want to be seen at the beach with you."

"Right, like I would ever go to the beach with you," she retorted moving her food further from his grasp.

"Hey, I am one cool dude at the beach," he replied making another end-run-around for her burrito and getting his second slap of the morning.

Kensi took another spite bite, chewed, swallowed and said, "It is a fact, ocean water is sticky. When you come out of the ocean the sand sticks to you everywhere." She held up a hand to his face stop his imagination from injecting a lewd comment. "And then you have to take a shower to get rid of all that sand. And if you take that shower here, in Hetty's torture-timed showers which turn cold…"

"But I thought you were just complaining it was hot?"

Kensi held her hand up to Deek's face again. "…which turn cold too fast to do a proper job. Then I have to dry my hair with the blower because if I don't it will frizz unattractively and unlike you, I care about my appearance. By the time my hair is dried I'm hot and sweaty again. So remind me why would want to go surfing?"

"Don't answer that Deeks," Sam quickly interposed. "Simply sit down and shut up."

Kensi smirked and took another huge bite of her burrito. Talking around the food she added, "And I look a damn site hotter in a bathing suit then you could ever dream of not that you will ever see me."

Deeks moved back to his desk and sat down. "Just saying. Besides…"

"Didn't I just give you a direct order Deeks?" Sam growled. "Mr. LAPD liaison, who is JUNIOR to me on this team, let me repeated myself. Sit down. Shut up."

Further conversation was halted by their diminutive Boss gliding into the bullpen and commanding their attention. "Has anyone seen Mr. Callen? He has paperwork to attend to," she stated waving the offending sheets in the air. "Late!"

"Callen or the paperwork?" quipped Deeks.

"Both!" she replied. "Mr. Hanna, where is your absent partner?"

Sam folded the paper, noting the time. Hetty was right, G was late. "I don't know Hetty. Haven't talked to him since we left last night."

"Well did he have any errands to run this morning?"

"What am I, his mother? I don't know. He didn't say anything," Sam said, his words gruff but his tone indicating he was getting concerned.

"I guess we can wait a bit before calling out the Calvary," Hetty concluded. "But I want him in my office the minute he walks through that door."

"Sure Hetty. No problem. Callen always listens and does exactly what I tell him to," Marty interjected.

"I was talking to Mr. Hanna, Mr. Deeks. I am well aware of your ability to command people's attention."

Deeks winced, Sam smirked and Kensi added "Snap."

Hetty turned, started to walk away and then halted. "And, Mr. Deeks. Kensi is correct. As the seawater dries on one's skin, it leaves salt behind and together with normal perspiration, the result is stickiness."

"Thanks you Dr. Lange," he muttered.

"I heard that," Hetty sing-songed as she moved away. "Late," she added waving the papers in the air as she went back to her office.

Burrito forgotten, Kensi turned to Sam. "Do you think we should be worried about Callen?"

"We should always be worried about him," Sam retorted. "He can get into trouble in the middle of an empty room." Sam rose from his chair and headed for the stairs. "Maybe I'll just ask Eric to check G's GPS."

"Is that legal?" Deeks asked as he trailed Sam and Kensi up the stairs to the situation room. "Is the government really allowed to track employees who are late to work via spy technology?"

"It's not spy technology. Everyone has it on their phone," Eric, the techno geek, added entering into the conversation. "We just happen to have slightly more sophisticated tools than the average Joe or Josephine," he added grinning at the Nell." Punching a few keys, Eric frowned. "Well the GPS in his phone is…"

"At the same location as his car," Nell chimed in, "Here," she pointed out bringing a map up on the big plasma. "Looks like it is in a parking lot near the jogging trail by Venice Beach."

"Can you bring it up via satellite?" asked Deeks.

"Absolutely not, Mr. Deeks. Satellites usages fees are astronomically expensive. It would seem our Mr. Callen is simply out for a run. Maybe he is finally trying out his new sneakers," floated the voice of Hetty from the doorway

Sam grinned. Deeks and Kensi looked confused.

"No satellite. But, to be prudent, Sam will drive there to ensure that our Mr. Callen has not twisted an ankle or something. Ms. Blythe and Mr. Deeks attend to the paperwork on your desk. Sam to the beach. Now scoot!"

"Sam gets to go the beach?" Deeks groused. "I don't have any paperwork to fill out…but," Deeks hastily added after receiving the evil eye from Hetty, "I'm sure I could find some."

"And, Mr. Hanna. Tell your partner no dilly-dallying and no side trips for breakfast."

"Yes Hetty," Sam grinned as they all headed out of Ops on their respective missions.


	6. Chapter 6

"On your knees," the gunman demanded keeping the weapon steadily trained at the blonde's head. Callen debated if he could carry out some sort of attack. However, his hands were still tied behind his back and the man was too far away to try sweeping his feet out from under him, so Callen shelved his plans and slowly maneuvered himself into the requested position.

"You got the wrong person, pal," Callen said looking his captor directly in the eyes, his voice reinforcing his tough guy persona.

"Oh you killed him alright. I saw it with my own eyes," Joel replied as he got up, grabbed a framed picture off the nearby shelf and shoved it in Callen's face. "This is the man you killed. My brother!"

Callen gave the picture of a young man in uniform a cursory glance before turning his cold-as-steel blue eyes back on his captor. "I'm telling you. You got the wrong guy. I've never seen him, whoever he is," he finished with a shrug of indifference.

Outraged by his prisoner's apathetic attitude, Joel pistol-whipped Callen's face. The agent's head snapped back from the force of the blow as blood started to flow from his spilt lip. However, Callen didn't let his tough guy attitude wavier. "Suppose you tell me how I allegedly killed that man," he said gesturing with a haughty jerk of his chin towards the picture.

"There is nothing alleged about it. I saw with my own eyes," he repeated towering over the agent. "It was in Venice Beach. You chased my brother down the boardwalk into a restaurant and then you shot him; you and your cop partner but YOU," he yelled, "YOU pulled the trigger! I was in that restaurant. I saw the whole thing," he finished angrily raising the muzzle to rest against the kneeling agent's temple. "Go ahead." The gun vibrated against Callen's head, fueled by Joel's rage. "Deny it," he snarled.

A quick moment of panic flashed through Callen's eyes as he realized this situation was spiraling out of control. Struggling to keep his breathing even, he recognized he had to diffuse Joel's fury before, like a bomb, he exploded which, Callen had no doubt, would leave him dead. Dropping his arrogant attitude, Callen neutrally intoned, "I'm sorry. What was your brother's name?"

Keeping the muzzle firmly pressed against his prisoner's head, Joel answered, "Jake. Jake Amello. He was in the Navy and was on leave. I hadn't seen in in 8 months. We were meeting for lunch at the Sidewalk Café." The gun drooped a little as Joel got lost in the memories of that day. "It was a beautiful day, even for LA. Jake said he had some business to attend to and he'd meet me for lunch around 1:00 at the Cafe. I got there a little early and found a table outside with a great view. Jake and I always enjoyed watching the people on the boards," Joel smiled a little. "Especially Jake. What he really loved was the hot girls; even more since he joined the Navy. Guess that happens when you spend 24/7 cooped up on a ship."

Taking a calculated risk in an attempt to put some distance between him and the bullet aimed at his brain, Callen slowly sunk back onto his heels. This opened a foot gap between his skull and the gun; however, it was still a death shot if Joel pulled the trigger.

As he continued to reminisce, Joel let the gun droop until it was resting at his side. "Funny how I can remember everything so clearly from that day. The sound of the waves, the smell of the food wafting in the breeze, the noise of the games, the hawkers and the crowds; it is almost surreal."

Callen started to slide further from his captor but Joel immediate caught on and brought the gun back to bear causing Callen to freeze and school his face into one of contrition.

Joel's eyes hardened as he glared down at his prisoner. "Then I heard the sound of running and Jake sprinted by me and into the restaurant, you hot on his heels. I got up to follow, but before I got to the door, I was bowled over by your muscle-bound partner. I finally made it into the restaurant just in time to see you shoot my brother. He was just standing there, unarmed, and you murdered Jake, in cold blood!" Viciously, Joel swung the barrel of the gun into Callen's temple so hard it knocked the agent to the floor and left him dazed. "You didn't give him a chance," Joel shouted, rapidly swinging his foot into Callen's unprotected ribs with sickening thuds. "Not…a…damn…chance!" he hollered, interspersing each word with a swift kick to Callen's body. The semi-conscious agent, blood flowing down his face again, tried unsuccessfully to crawl away from the abuse.

"You killed him," Joel repeated over and over, punctuated by blow after blow. Finally exhausted, Joel dropped into the nearby chair, covering his face with his hands. Callen lay on the floor, desperately trying to breathe and remain conscious. As he lay there, working himself back to equilibrium, Callen searched his brain for the details of the case the man had just described. It did sound familiar and finally he was able to recall the facts of the incident.

It had involved an E-2 Seaman who had stolen classified documents. Jake Amello. NCIS had been called in to retrieve the missing data and determine the collateral damage. Callen had posed as a buyer and had arranged a meet with Jake in Venice Beach. At the time, the whole case had seemed pretty open and shut, amateurish; nothing cloak and dagger about it. As near as Callen and his team could tell, Jake had more or less stumbled across the classified data and decided to make good on the opportunity to score some extra cash. Nell had uncovered the fact that Jake had a drug habit and on an E-2 pay, the ability to earn a little extra income would have been most welcome. However, it appeared that once Jake had secured the classified data he was at a loss as to how to sell it, so he'd approached his bunk mate who had connections to the criminal element in LA.

An informant of Sam's, hoping for a 'finder's fee' had contacted the agent and had told him about the flash drive of classified data for sale. Eric had obtained Jake's cell number and Callen had placed a call to him, posing as a buyer who had heard about the 'goods for sale' from a friend of a friend. The meet had been set up for noon. Only Sam and Callen had gone to the rendezvous site because the team had agreed this was a low-risk operation. Eric and Nell had eyes on the meet through security cams, Callen had a distress word, 'sea bass', and Sam had been on guard on a nearby bench pretending to peruse the paper.

As his head somewhat cleared, Callen decided this would be a good time to try to position himself for another escape attempt, since Joel was still across the room in a chair not paying attention to his prisoner. Fighting back the pain, Callen maneuvered his body until he was sitting, propped up, against the wall. Jake seemed unaware of his movements; his face remained buried in his hands. Deciding to go for broke, the injured agent strained to get on his feet. Halfway up, his right leg buckled causing him to slide down the wall to the floor with a loud crash. That caught Jake's attention, as both his red-rimmed eyes and the gun refocused on the stricken agent. At that point Callen gave up his attempt to physically escape and went back to working the verbal angle.

With the gun now pointed at him again, Callen swiftly ran the last part of the Op through his mind. He'd met up with Jake, whose appearance and erratic behavior had led Callen to believe the man was stung out on drugs. However, the two had managed to strike a deal and exchange the goods. As soon as Jake had taken possession of the cash, Callen had flashed his badge informing Jake he was under arrest. It had been no real surprise when Jake, under the influence of narcotics, had violently swung the backpack containing the money at Callen which resulted in Callen getting knocked off his feet and sprawling on the cement. While the downed agent had scrambled to his feet, Jake had taken off running. In a few seconds, Callen had been hot in pursuit with Sam several yards behind.

Chasing a suspect down the boardwalk in Venice is always a pain because people did not seem to be able to comprehend the fact they had to move out of the way of the runners. It always reminded Callen of a bad game of grade-school dodge ball with people bouncing off of the bad guy, spinning in front of the good guy who either ran into them, or if lucky, dodged them; in either case it slowed down the good guys, letting the bad guys get further ahead.

Jake had been 100 yards in the lead when he had suddenly veered into the Sidewalk Café, Callen recalled. By the time the agent had gotten there, the suspect had already disappeared inside. Entering the restaurant, Callen had spotted his adversary ducking behind the bar. Using standard protocol, Callen had pulled out his gun and yelled 'Federal Agents'. The usual panic had ensued; people screamed and bobbed out of the way while the suspect took the words 'Federal Agent' as permission to do something stupid. Most often the bad guys drew their own weapons and shot at the person who had yelled 'Federal Agents'. In this case, Jake had grabbed a knife from behind the bar that had been used to slice fruit for exotic drinks. He had secured the bartender, a good-looking redhead in her twenties, around the waist, held her in front of him as a shield while positioning the knife against her jugular vein. Callen had yelled at him to drop the knife but Jake only held it tighter to the bartender's neck, drawing blood. Callen had been left with two choices, try to talk the man into releasing his hostage or go for the shot. As a trained agent, he had quickly evaluated the risks; heavily populated locale, high probability for additional casualties the longer this played out; unstable suspect, highly unpredictable behavior; the knife welder had already drawn first blood; choice, go for the shot.

Callen did not remember every person he'd shot, in his line of work, shooting at people unfortunately was the norm. However, he did remember each time he had pulled the trigger in a scenario like the one he had found himself in with Jake; a one on one, execution shot. These scenes haunted his nights and had led to many an appliance being rewired. The outside world judged him after the fact on his actions, but no harder than he judged himself in the cold darkness of the night. But in the moment, an action had to be taken and he had; Joel had walked into the restaurant just in time to see Callen shoot his brother. One could rationalize that the drugs in Jake's system hadn't helped and led to his demise, but in the end, Callen had pulled the trigger.

Knowing he was in no physical condition to overpower Joel, Callen knew his only hope was to verbally convince Joel not to pull the trigger. It might be bad hostage procedure, but Callen allowed sympathy to guide his next actions. Letting out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, he raised his head to meet Joel's eyes and said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I did kill your brother."

Joel straightened in his chair and brought the gun to bear on Callen. Even though Joel's hand was shaking, if he pulled that trigger Callen knew he would die; he had to talk this man down. "But, if you shoot me, kill me, you'll be a murder."

Joel's hand continued to tremble but the gun remained fixed on the agent.

"Killing me won't bring your brother back, but it will mean spending the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, waiting, wondering when the police will show up."

The gun was shaking so violently now, that Callen was afraid Joel was going to accidently set off the trigger. This had to end.


	7. Chapter 7

"I can't undo the past, but maybe I can give you a future. But you have to put that gun down now, before you do something you will live to regret just like I regret having to kill your brother," Callen said bowing his head to stare at the ground. If this failed, at least he wouldn't see the bullet that ended his life.

A deep stillness settled over the room broken only by the ragged breathing of the two men. Time slowly dragged by until Joel gradually lowered the gun, placing it on the floor by his chair. "You're right," he said voice raspy with emotion. "I thought killing you would make everything right but it won't."

Callen dared to raise his head, and studying the broken man in front of him, felt an overwhelming desire to help him. "Look, I was doing my job but I get what you are feeling. Let me go and this stays between you and me. No one will come after you. I promise."

Joel's eyes held a glimmer of hope as he processed Callen's words. "Why?"

Callen swallowed hard. "I know what it is like to lose someone. It can mess with your mind… big time."

"But why! Why did you kill Jake? My brother was a good man. We lived thru hell growing up but we survived! We were OK. He was OK. I don't know why he was running from you but surely that was no reason to kill him!" Joel cried out in anguish.

Then Callen got it. Joel had no clue what his brother had done. "What do you know about your brother's arrest?"

Joel wiped a hand across his sweating brow. "Not much," he admitted. "The cops told me he stole something and was killed resisting arrest."

"I was chasing your brother because he tried to sell me classified Navy data."

Joel shook his head in denial.

"Did you know your brother was into drugs?" Callen asked quietly.

Joel nearly went for the gun again as he spat out, "You're wrong. My brother would never do drugs. NEVER!"

"He was on drugs that day. The autopsy conclusively proved it," Callen calmly explained to the outraged brother.

Confusion was written all over Joel's face. "There was an autopsy? How come I wasn't told?" He thought back to his brother's death. Yes, it did seem like it took a while for them to release his brother's remains, but he was so upset he really hadn't given it that much thought. He'd had the body cremated so he never saw the body after they took his dead brother away that day.

'Boy our system is screwed up,' Callen thought to himself. "Your brother had a high level of cocaine in his system. There was no way he was thinking right that day. After he sold me the documents, I pulled my badge and told him he was under arrest. He bolted down the sidewalk into that Café. What you didn't see was he grabbed a bartender, an innocent girl, and was holding a knife to her throat. He'd started to slit her throat, drawn blood and when I asked him to drop the knife he refused. I'm sorry, but I had no choice." Callen rubbed a weary hand across his face. "Look. I'm sorry. He left me no choice," Callen's voice trailed off.

Tears streaked down Joel's face. "Drugs. Why would Jake turn to drugs. After all we'd been through, after Dad and Mom. He swore. Maybe it is some sort of cruel twisted fate," he laughed bitterly. "Drugs killed my whole family. Guess I'm next."

"Just because your parents and your brother screwed up their lives, doesn't mean you have to screw up yours. You can escape. I know. Trust me," Callen said sincerely. You're in the Navy, right?"

Joel looked startled, "How did you know?"

"Gun was Navy issued, the zip ties, haircut, posture, a lot of things. So what do you do in the Navy?"

A small proud smile crept across Joel's face. "Electronic tech. But I'm applying for officer school. I think I have a good chance."

A smile of encouragement crept across Callen's face. "That doesn't sound like a loser to me."

"But this," Joel waved his hand aimlessly through thru air.

"Never happened," Callen said shaking his head slowly. "No one will ever come for you. I promise. Let me go and I'll walk out of here and you and I have never met."

"You'd do that for me. After what I did to you?" Joel asked bewildered.

"Like I said, I get it. It is hard to lose family and can drive one to do, well, really stupid things," Callen finished with a knowing smile.

Still not believing his luck Joel muttered, "He said you'd be there. I saw you. You and your partner in that sporting goods store and the only thing I could think of was revenge."

"How about taking these things off," Callen gestured referring to the handcuffs.

"Sure," Joel said as he got up from the chair, went to the garage and retuned with a pair of snips. Callen moved away from the wall so Joel could cut his hands free and once free he massaged his wrist. Joel held out a hand and Callen gratefully took it and leveraged himself off the floor using the wall to steady himself until he found his balance. Joel backed off a few feet and watched the man he had injured. "You're not going to arrest me?" he asked again

"Never saw you before in my life. I just had a little accident while out jogging. Hurt my ribs and leg when I fell. I really should be more careful."

Joel grinned in relief being offered a 'do over'. Maybe this man was right. Maybe his parents and his brother lives did not have to define him.

"Let me clean up in your bathroom then how about a lift back to my car. Except this time I get to ride in the front, not the trunk. Deal?"

"Deal," Joel confirmed.

"And secure that weapon. I suspect you are not supposed to have it off base." Joel's stricken look confirmed Callen's suspicions.

Walking into the bathroom, Callen firmly shut the door before collapsing against the sink. A monster headache had lodged itself in his skull, his ribs screamed in protest at every breath and his right leg felt like it was one massive bruise from his ankle to his groin. Glancing in the mirror he saw his face matched his body; lip split, right cheek sporting a cut surrounded by a bruise and he was going to have a hell of a shiner. There wasn't much he could do to improve his appearance other than wash the blood off his face and wrists. That accomplished, he joined Joel back in the living room, noting the man had secured the gun as requested.

Callen tried not to wince as they made their way to Joel's car, got in and drove away. On the way back to the beach, Joel told Callen his life story. By the end, Callen knew he'd made the right decision. This kid was dealt a raw hand but maybe, just maybe, he could make a good life for himself.

Callen glanced out the window as they approached the parking lot where he'd left his car and spotted Sam's Challenger just pulling up behind his Mercedes. "Keep driving," Callen commanded Joel. "Don't pull in." Though confused, Joel did as he was told.

Callen looked over his shoulder to see if they had been spotted; it appeared not. Sam was getting out of his sleek, black car and walking over to examine Callen's.

"Turn around, drive up the coast about a ¼ mile and then drop me off."

Joel looked at him questioningly.

"My partner. He is at my car. I don't want him to see you. That will make things… complicated."

"You really mean it," Joel said his voice hopeful. "I mean I know you said it but…"

"I mean it," Callen confirmed. "You and I have never met."

When they got a ways away from the parking lot, Callen instructed Joel to pull over. "This will do." Joel stopped the car and the two men sat in silence for a minute. Then Joel suddenly remembered he had Callen's keys and dug them out of his pocket. "You might need these."

"Thanks," Callen replied taking the keys and exiting the vehicle. He leaned back in the window adding, "Put your brother behind you. Live your own life," and with that, the battered agent turned and walked away.

Chalk it up to his injuries, but it wasn't until he started to walk away that a statement Joel had said earlier registered. Joel had indicated that someone had told him Callen and Sam would be at that sporting goods store. Swearing under his breath for not catching that sooner, he turned around to question Joel, but guy had already pulled away into traffic. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Callen turned back and headed down the path towards his car.

What neither man noticed was the third party, who had been watching them from a nearby car.


	8. Chapter 8

"His car is here," Sam reported back to Ops, "but no sign of Callen," he noted as he tried the door handle; it was locked. "Eric, open the car," and a second later Sam heard a familiar click as the locks were released. Opening the door, he looked around inside and immediately noted Callen's wallet, phone and weapon were lying on the floor on the passenger side. "I don't like this," Sam said to no one in particular.

"What did you find Sam?" Kensi asked her voice indicating her anxiety. She and Deeks had snuck back into Ops to see what was going on.

"I found…," but he didn't finish as a voice cut him off.

"Sam. What are you doing?" Callen questioned as he limped across the parking lot. Sam slowly examined his partner with a critical eye. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded.

Callen walked over, leaned casually against the car, and studied his partner. "Me. What are you doing?" he asked deflecting Sam's question. "Breaking into my car? Not cool man. If you wanted to drive it you only had to ask," he said sincerely.

"Stop deflecting and answer the question."

Callen glanced up at his taller partner looking puzzled. "Losing your powers of observation Sam? Isn't it obvious? Shorts. T-shirt. Sweat. Running shoes…" Callen paused before making a buzzing noise. "Sorry, the answer we were looking for is jogging. No prize for you."

"I'm gonna give you a prize," Sam snapped.

"Sam! Is everything alright?" came the worried voice of Kensi over the phone.

"Yeah. Callen's here now. He was just out for a jog. Or so he claims," he answered his voice registering his disbelief in his partner's story.

"Did you notice the new sneakers Sam?" Callen said looking down. "Be sure to tell Hetty I wore them."

"Ah-huh," Sam replied to Callen then addressed Kensi. "Everything is cool here. Out."

Sam put his phone in his pocket, then crossed his arms and had a stare down with his partner. "Ok, it is just you and me now. Spill it."

"What?" Callen said inflicting incredulity into his voice.

"You were out jogging."

"I was out jogging," Callen echoed in confirmation.

"And…," Sam prompted.

"It was a nice day."

"And," Sam prompted again.

"I jogged. But you know, I do have a complaint. These stupid shoes you made me buy…"

"Hetty," Sam interjected.

"…Hetty made me buy kept coming untied!" Callen finished with a flourish.

Sam sighed, wondering how long his partner was going to try to run him in circles before telling the truth, or at least G's version of the truth. Sam decided to try to hurry this along. It was hot in the sun and even though his partner was vainly trying to hide it, Sam could see he was in pain. "You left your wallet, phone and gun in the car, unsecured, on the floor," Sam pointed out accusingly.

Callen had the decency to look sheepish. "I laid them on the seat and must have forgotten them," he explained rather lamely.

"Ah-huh. How did they end up on the floor?" his partner questioned.

"Earthquake?" Callen quickly replied knowing it sounded as stupid to Sam as it did to him.

"Not standard operating procedure."

"Well I am not an SOP kind of guy," Callen retorted. Sam decided to wait him out knowing, he was one of the few people who could intimidate Callen into telling the truth…sometimes.

Callen made a big production number out of sighing, which hurt his ribs so much he nearly passed out. "Alright. You got me big guy. I was getting ready to jog. I set my stuff on the seat while I pulled on my t-shirt. Scars. Not a pretty sight."

"Yeah, I've seen them," Sam said drolly.

"Out of nowhere, this drop dead gorgeous blonde goes jogging by. I mean she was hot. So I hurried up to, ah, jog behind her. Thought maybe I would ask her out." Callen shrugged his shoulders. "Forgot to grab my stuff. My bad."

"I have never known you to put that much effort into chasing a skirt."

"What!" Callen said indignantly. "I'm not dead… or married like you."

"No. And you have not gone out in a date in, what, the last 16 months? And suddenly you have this overwhelming urge to date a jogger who just happens to pass by you?"

Callen cocked his head and grinned at his partner. "She was hot."

"Ok, maybe that explains the stuff on the floor of your car," Sam said in a tone that clearly said it did not. "Then how do you explain the fact you look like you went 9 rounds with Muhammad Ali and lost."

Callen was ready for this one. "I fell," he said succinctly. "These stupid laces, on these dumb sneakers, that you and Hetty made me buy, tripped me."

"And you fell, face first, into whose fist?" Sam queried clearly not buying Callen's fairy tale.

"A rock." Callen quickly replied.

"A rock, split your lip, cut your cheek and gave you a black-eye?" Sam questioned as he did a roll call of Callen's visible injuries.

"Several rocks. Also," Callen added as if providing full disclosure, "I think I may have cracked a few ribs, bruised my leg and have a slight concussion."

"I see. So let me see if I have this time line straight. You get here early in the morning; say 6:00 a.m. knowing your sleeping habits. You drive here shirtless and/or decide to change your t-shirt once you get here which causes you to forget your gun and phone on the seat."

"The jogger," Callen reminded him. "The incredibly hot jogger made me forget."

"Right, the incredibly hotter jogger you decide to follow like some sort of pervert."

Callen gave Sam a wounded look but Sam ignored him and continued. "While you are out chasing this hot chick, your shoe laces came untied, you trip and fall on several rocks.

"Actually," Callen interposed, "I tripped several times. These stupid laces will not stay tied," he said gesturing to his sneakers, which were untied.

"So every time you tripped you managed to hit your face on a rock." Sam snorted. "Maybe you need to work on your falling technique in the gym."

"Maybe," Callen said non-committedly.

"That, if we live in a fantasy world, explains your face. What about the rest of your injuries?"

"Happened when I rolled off the cliff. Onto a small ledge," he supplied helpfully.

"I see. And you spent the last," Sam glanced at his watch, "last four hours limping back to your car."

"After I woke up."

"Oh, you passed out?" Sam asked in a tone Callen didn't like; one that sounded like a trip to the emergency room was in his future.

"Well, maybe I passed out for a few minutes; then again maybe not. But you have the rest right."

Sam looked sincerely at his partner. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"I'm telling you Sam. I…," but Sam cut him off with a look which made Callen drop his act. "I can't tell you Sam. I promised."

Sam grunted in annoyance.

"Trust me on this one. Please," Callen pleaded frankly, all his barriers dropped so Sam could see this was really important to him.

Sam sighed. "Is this gonna come back to haunt me? This is not another lone wolf thing?"

"No ghosts. Just a simple misunderstanding," Callen said candidly.

"How badly hurt are you? For real?"

Callen let his control go and allowed the pain to wash across his face. "Not doing so good. But not…," he cut off his partner, "hospital requiring bad. Just home, rest, aspirin and a case of beer."

"Can you drive?"

"Let's say I would prefer not to."

"Can you get your sorry ass off that car and into mine?"

"Maybe."

"Well do it. It's hot out here," Sam groused.

Callen attempted to push off the car and walk the 500 feet to the Challenger, but his body wasn't cooperating. His head started spinning like a top, his leg gave out on him again and he slid ungracefully to the pavement. "Little help here?" he requested of his partner.

"I don't know. Are you going to barf?" Sam questioned as he stood over his fallen partner.

"Do I ever barf, as you so elegantly put it?"

Sam snorted. "Every time you get a concussion. Don't think I haven't noticed. For me, it a sure sign. Last time you threw up so much I thought we were going to have to reinsert your lungs."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Help me up. Please," Callen implored. Sam complied, gently helping his injured partner up and over to the passenger side of the Challenger. After leveraging him into the seat, he shut the door. "No barfing!" he reminded his worse for the wear buddy.

Walking back over to Callen's car, he collected Callen's SIG, wallet and phone before popping the hood. Reaching underneath he pulled loose a few wires. Dialing Ops he requested that Eric send a tow truck to pick up the car. "It won't start. I'm giving Callen a ride home. He, ah, had a little jogging accident. He's OK just a little scraped up."

The ever lovely, if not strident, voice of Hetty Lange inquired, "Should Mr. Callen be visiting a hospital or at least an urgent care facility?"

"No Hetty. Nothing some ice and aspirin won't solve," he lied knowing his partner would barely even submit to that much medical attention.

"I see. Would you like to elaborate on how he injured himself?

'Not on my life,' Sam thought but replied aloud, "Later. I really think I should get him home ASAP and get some ice on…", 'Everywhere' he added internally.

"Well if you think that is best, Mr. Hanna. Far be it for me to hold you up."

"Thanks Hetty. I'll have G call you as soon as possible." 'And let him try to bullshit you,' he silently added.

"Very well. Drive safely."

"I will. Bye," Sam replied slamming the hood shut as he hung up.

Getting back in the car, he glanced over at his partner who seemed to be fading fast. "That was Hetty. She'd like you to call and explain when you are up to it." Sam swore his partner got even paler, if that was possible.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam spent the rest of day at Callen's house, returning to his own house when night set in. He didn't think his partner was in any real danger from his injuries, though he would be sore for quite a while from the bruises. After downing a handful of aspirin and drinking more beer than he probably should have, Callen had spent most of the day asleep. Sam had gone out and purchased some Chinese takeout, leaving it in Callen's fridge in case his friend woke up hungry. Callen had thanked him when he arose from his slumber but had not made any move to eat. Sam, knowing his partner, didn't push it.

"I'll pick you up in the morning, since your car is in the shop 'cause it won't start," Sam said drily as he was getting ready to leave. "By then they should have reattached the wires that came 'loose.'"

"Thanks Sam," Callen replied from his prone position on his new sofa. "And Sam," he said as he gave his partner a searching look, "Thanks. For not pushing."

"You sure this is not gonna bite me in the ass later?" Sam asked again. "I hate when that happens. You know it pisses me off."

Callen shook his head slowly and smiled. "Not this one." However, in the back of his mind he was not really sure since he was still puzzled about Joel's remark about the mystery man.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Sam replied as he got up to leave. "I'll pick you up at 9:00 tomorrow morning."

"10:00 and with doughnuts?"

"9:30. And there's Chinese in the fridge. Eat something," Sam countered. "And no more beer until you eat!"

"None left," Callen pouted.

"I picked up some more of that slop you like when I got the Chinese. But it all better be there when I come back in the morning. I'm not kidding G," Sam warned in a menacing tone.

"Yes Mom" Callen wisecracked. "Or you'll take my car away. Wait, you already did that."

"You are impossible."

"And you still love me for it," he returned.

Sam laughed. "Night," he said letting himself out.

Silence settled over the house as Callen debated whether he was hungry. His whole body ached and the fact that there was more beer in his fridge, thanks to Sam, was incredibly tempting. However, the rational part of his mind knew his partner would count the bottles when he picked him up in the morning and if there was one missing, well Sam would get even; maybe not immediately but some time, when Callen least expected it. Deciding he wasn't that keen to have to be constantly watching his back against his partner, he had enough problem with the bad guys, he decided to forgo the beer and instead carefully rearranged himself on the sofa and went back to sleep.

-NCIS-LA-

On time, as always, Sam let himself into G's house exactly at 9:30 the next morning. He announced his presence as he walked in the door so his partner would not use him for target practice. Callen stuck his wet head around the corner and greeted him. "Be ready in 5. Did you bring doughnuts?" he inquired hopefully.

"No," Sam said firmly as he opened G's fridge to check on the contents. Chinese food looked untouched, no surprise there, but on the plus side all the beers were accounted for. Callen came around the corner, shirtless, toweling his hair. Sam observed his partner's black and blue torso and let out a low whistle. "Nice," he noted. "Trying out for the Blue Man Group?"

"Ha, ha," Callen said disappearing then returning with a long sleeved t-shirt. Sam watched silently as his stubborn friend tried to get it over his head without aid.

"Like a hand," he asked nonchalantly.

"No," his mule-gened partner quickly replied.

"Yeah, right," Sam said ignoring Callen's words and assisting him anyway. "Glad you didn't decide to go with buttons. If your buttoning is anything like your shoe tying ability…" Sam let his sentence hang.

"It was lacing, totally different," Callen reminded him.

"Right. You ready?"

"Yep," Callen replied heading for the front door. "How about we pick up some doughnuts on the way in?" he tossed as they headed for the Challenger.

"We're already late," Sam volleyed.

"Then what's a few minutes more?" Callen returned.

"Hetty, giving me a lecture," Sam answered. Point, set, match.

Callen sighed as he carefully eased his sore body into the vehicle.

"Buckle up," Sam commanded.

"Do I have to? It's gonna hurt."

"Tough. This car doesn't start until that seatbelt clicks."

"But we'll be late and Hetty…"

Sam had enough so he reached over his partner, grabbed the seatbelt and buckled him in. "Pray I don't stop short and make it tighten."

A look of horror crossed Callen's face. "You wouldn't."

"Don't tempt me," Sam growled, starting the car and pulling into the street.

Callen settled back into his seat to keep as much looseness in the shoulder belt as possible. "I know you checked the fridge, counted the beers. They were all there weren't they?"

"How do I know you didn't drink one or two and then refill them with water?" Sam asked.

Callen didn't blush often, but he had the decency to do it now. Busted. "How'd you know?"

"You left the opener in the sink. I had put it away before I left."

'Crap,' Callen thought. "Actually, I did what you asked. I drank it after midnight so technically it was a different day."

"I didn't say a time. I said no more beer until you ate. Did you eat?" Callen's silence said it all. Sam glanced over at his chasten comrade and grinned. "Sucks having an observant partner don't it."

"In more ways than you'll ever know," Callen answered. "So about those doughnuts?"

-NCIS-LA-

The partners arrived at the building bearing doughnuts. "I only did it 'cause I felt sorry for you. That and you beg worse than a three-year-old," Sam said as they entered the building.

"Thanks," Callen mumbled around his second doughnut of the morning.

"Gentleman. How nice of you to join us," Hetty greeted them sarcastically as they came down the corridor.

Unable to reply because his mouth was full, Callen simply held out the box of doughnuts.

"Ah, no. Powdered sugar does not go well with my outfit," she said with a pointed look at the front of Callen's navy blue t-shirt that now had a distinctive white pattern on it.

Plopping the box on the sideboard, Callen attempted to brush the sugar off his shirt while swallowing the object that caused it.

"When you are done with your grooming, please meet the rest of the team up in Ops, Mr. Callen. She gave Sam an accusatory glare as she walked by on her way to the stairs.

"What?" Sam said trailing after her. "I told him we'd be late if we stopped. I told him you'd be mad but you know he never listens," he complained to their Boss as they climbed to the second floor.

"You are bigger than he is, Mr. Hanna. Perhaps you should use that to your advantage once in a while," Hetty suggested matter-of-factly.

"Don't be giving him ideas Hetty," Callen yelled up the stairs after them.

"You know, I like your thinking Hetty," Sam said with a mischievous grin. "I just might have to try that."

Callen eventually joined them in Ops. "What do we have Eric?" Callen asked briskly trying to reassert his authority.

"Joel Amello. Dead seaman. Shot at close range in his home last night," the tech said as he brought the pictures of the crime scene up on the plasma.

Nell chimed in adding, "No motive yet, but one interesting fact. His brother was…"

Callen took one look at the pictures on the screen, abruptly turned and fled the room, his face a mix of horror, anger and sorrow.

"…arrested for stealing classified Navy documents," Nell finished. "Sam, you and Callen arrested his brother. Do you think…"

"Callen knew the dead guy?" Sam completed as he watched his partner disappear. "I'd say so." He glanced down at Hetty who was staring intensely at him. "I suspect that cliff now has a name… Joel Amello."

Hetty's faced changed to one of puzzlement. "Care to elaborate, Mr. Hanna?"

"Later. I gotta go find G," he said departing Ops. The remaining five operatives were left to stare at each other, not quite able to piece together what had just transpired.

-NCIS-LA-

It didn't take Sam long to find his missing partner who was sitting on the beach, just above the high-tide mark, moodily staring at the waves. Sam eased himself onto the sand at his friend's side, saying nothing. Experience told him G would talk when he was ready. Their silence was punctuated by the crash of the waves and the call of the gulls.

"I didn't kill him," Callen finally said belligerently.

"No one is accusing you," Sam replied soothingly. "But you knew him. He did this to you," Sam guessed.

"I promised him he would be safe," Callen said, his voice breaking and unshed tears making his eyes bright.

"Suppose you tell me what really happened yesterday. No bullshit this time. And for the record, it has come back to bite me in the ass," Sam said, trying to lighten his partner's mood.

But Callen didn't smile. This whole situation somehow felt very wrong and very personal. Drawing a shaky breath, he tried desperately to get his wayward emotions under control. "Joel Amello took me prisoner before my run. Tasered and drugged me then took me back to his apartment, the one in the photos."

"Stripped you of your gun and phone, tossing them onto the floor of the car," Sam pieced together based on what he had observed earlier.

"Wouldn't know," Callen said bitterly. "Whatever he injected into me knocked me out cold, fast."

"Go on," Sam encouraged.

"I woke up in his apartment, hands tied behind my back and him holding a gun pointed at my head. He told me I killed his brother."

"And I'm guessing this is where you antagonized him, which he didn't take well and that led to the first crack across the face with the gun," Sam concluded.

Ignoring his partner, Callen continued. "He showed me a picture of his brother. Accused me of killing him again."

"You denied it, he got madder."

"He sprouted off exactly how I killed his brother…" Callen continued.

"At which point you gave him more attitude which led him to hit you, again. When will you learn the tough guy routine usually leads to you getting the crap beat out of you."

"Then I remembered the case."

"As you lay on the floor nauseous, bleeding and gasping for breath," Sam inserted.

Callen looked over at his partner. "He had it wrong Sam."

"What wrong and how did you escape?"

"Didn't. He let me go," answered Callen

Sam raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Callen let out a frustrated sigh. "He had it wrong Sam. The police only told him his brother stole something. He had no clue it was classified data. They also never informed him about the results of the autopsy. Joel didn't know his brother was strung out on drugs that day. Joel ran into the restaurant in time to see me shoot his brother. Blamed me. Wanted revenge."

"How did you convince him to let you go?"

Callen shrugged. "I talked to him honestly. He was scared, alone, confused. He'd lost the only family he had left when I shot his brother. He thought revenge was the answer. Let's say I could really relate to him."

Sam grunted.

"He was a good kid, Sam. Just confused. He didn't deserve to die," Callen vehemently spat.

"Any clue who killed him G?" Sam asked.

Callen closed his eyes, pain washing across his face. "I promised if he let me go nothing would happen to him," he replied softly, his voice breaking again. Callen took a shaky breath then his voice got more stable as he talked. "There was something Joel said when he had me. 'He said you'd be there,'" Callen slowly recalled. "I was too messed up, not thinking straight at the time, but I'm sure he meant someone told him we'd be at that store, the day we bought the sneakers. I never followed up on it and now he's dead."

"You didn't do this to him G. Some sick weirdo killed him. Stop beating yourself up."

"Oh come on Sam," Callen replied angrily, turning on his partner. "Somehow this is connected back to me. I know it."

"Alright. Calm down. Let's go check out the crime scene. See what we can find. Eric sent the address to our phones."

"Don't need the address," Callen bitterly laughed. "You forget. I've been there before.


	10. Chapter 10

_One more chapter after this one to reach the conclusion. I hope you have been enjoying the journey. It was supposed to be a short, light story on buying sneakers but it took off running (pun intended) on a totally different path. As always, love reviews both good (because it is always cool to make someone happy in life, if only for a few minutes) and constructive (because we are never too old to learn)._

_-NCIS-LA-_

The Challenger pulled up to the curb outside the taped off crime scene at the apartment complex by the marina. A rookie LAPD officer let them through after thoroughly verifying their credentials. Callen took a deep breath and mentally steeled himself before entering the apartment.

"You Ok?" Sam asked with concern noting his companion's demeanor.

"No," Callen said truthfully as he crossed the threshold. The body of Joel Amello lay on the floor of the living room staring blankly at the ceiling. A pool of blood surrounded the victim's head, the result of a single point-blank gunshot.

Sam approached the LAPD detective, who was crouched over the body. "What do you have?"

"Single gunshot to the forehead, close range. But it didn't happen here. He was shot as he opened the front door and then dragged back into the living room. Poor guy. Never had a chance."

Callen hung back, listening while staring at the corpse; his face was blank but his eyes burned with hatred.

"Anything else you can tell us detective?" Sam questioned.

Slowly standing up, he said, "Yeah, there was a note left at the scene by the killer."

"How do you know it was left by the killer?" Sam asked raising his eyebrows in puzzlement.

"Sick bastard wrote it in the victim's blood," replied the cop distastefully. The detective gestured to a nearby table where the note was already sealed in a clear evidence bag. It was easy to read, even thru the bag. It simply said, 'The pawn G'. "We're speculating the murder got interrupted since the last word on the note is not finished," the plainclothes officer surmised.

Callen blanched before turning and hurrying from the apartment, shoving his way past Kensi and Deeks as they entered the scene.

"Callen?" Kensi asked, concern in her voice, as she reached out to touch his shoulder as he passed by her. The agent brushed her off, continuing out the door. Kensi looked questioningly at Sam who, she noted, was also looking rather pale.

"Take over here and don't say anything about the note," Sam said brusquely following after his departed partner.

Kensi and Deeks regarded each other, bewildered. Observing that Sam had been looking at something on the evidence table, the duo walked over to the table and spotted the note. Kensi picked it up and muttered "Oh my God." Deeks peered over her shoulder then let out a low whistle.

The detective saw their reactions and said, "Sick huh. Victim's own blood we think. Like I was telling your partner, we think he got interrupted before he could finish the note. Not sure what word he was going to write that began with a G."

Kensi schooled to her face to show no emotion as she gently laid the note in the clear bag back on the table. Deeks turned to face the detective and said, "Yeah, I'm sure that is what it was, the murder was interrupted." The two made arrangements for everything to be sent to NCIS and the LAPD was happy to oblige. When the police were out of earshot Kensi hissed at Deeks, "You know what this means! The killer knew Callen, not one of his aliases."

-NCIS-LA-

Sam found Callen, arms crossed, leaning against the black Challenger, his face was a mask of anger, except for his eyes which showed the true horror the man was feeling at somehow being linked to this man's brutal death. "Let's go," he said tersely climbing into the car.

Sam slid behind the wheel and said "Where too?"

Callen's mask wavered, anger being replaced with despondency. "I killed him Sam."

"You didn't pull the trigger G."

Callen gave a harsh laugh as he looked out the window at the crime scene. "Technicality."

"Any ideas who might have done this?" Sam asked softly.

Callen closed his eyes wearily, leaning his head against the back of the seat. "No clue," he whispered wretchedly. "I promised him he would be safe and now he's dead." Callen waged an internal war to get his feelings under control and his barriers rebuilt. Sam didn't know what else to day so the two sat quietly in the car. "Back to the office Sam," Callen finally said his voice now as hard as a rock. "I need to find who did this."

-NCIS-LA-

Kensi and Deeks had nothing new to report when they returned from Joel's apartment. No prints, fibers or any hard evidence other than the note. Callen, walls fully rebuilt, demeanor as cold as ice, had listened to the news in stony silence before heading off towards the gun range. Wisely, the team gave him his space.

As afternoon passed into night, Sam decided to check up on his partner and force him to go home and get some rest. A search revealed the man, slumped against the wall in the gym, breathing erratically, shirt soaked with sweat and his hands crossed over his stomach. As Sam walked by the punching bag, he discovered there were red stains on it. Sighing deeply, he realized how his partner had been coping. "Hold out your hands," he firmly ordered his partner. Without lifting his head G did as he was told and Sam saw the agent's knuckles were raw and streaked with blood. He wordlessly walked over to the nearby first-aid locker, took out an ice pack and activated it, before moving back to his partner. Sliding onto the floor next to him, Sam handed over the ice pack. "You need to ice them." Callen ignored him. "They're gonna swell, hurt like hell in the morning if you don't ice them down," Sam lectured.

"They already hurt like hell," Callen muttered raising his head to look at this friend.

Sam's stomach lurched at the emptiness in his friend's eyes; he couldn't allow Callen to do this to himself, it was time for tough love. "Did it help? Mutilating yourself?" Sam asked sharply. Callen flinched at his partner's harsh tone. "Doing something like this G, it's just another way of going lone wolf."

"You do it," Callen angrily accused his partner.

"Yes, I take out my frustrations by punching the bag but I properly wrap my hands first and use gloves. Not this," he replied grabbing one of Callen's bloody hands and holding it up for inspection. "This is stupid." Sam slapped an ice pack on Callen's knuckles. "Ten minutes on, ten minutes off. Now get up. I'm driving you home." Callen started to open his mouth and protest but Sam cut him off. "No argument."

Grimacing from the agony racking his body, Callen sluggishly made his way to his feet wavering a bit when he finally made it vertical. Sam supportively reached over and steadied him and Callen did not pull way, accepting the help as a way of apology. After a few seconds, Callen gave a small nod to indicate he had it under control then Sam let go, bent, picked up the abandoned ice pack and handed it back to his partner. "Ten on, ten off," he neutrally repeated.

Luckily, they encountered no one as they slowly made their way out of the building to Sam's car where Callen instantly collapsed into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt.

"See," Sam said with forced brightness. "You are trainable." Callen simply shut his eyes, ignoring his partners attempt at humor.

Sam tried and failed several times on the way home to engage Callen in a dialogue, but his partner remained stubbornly silent. Even an offer to buy him dinner was answered only by a negative nod.

Pulling up in front of Callen's bungalow he turned off the car, then looked at his partner and asked, "Are you gonna be alright?"

"Not sure," Callen replied honestly. "But no, I don't want you to come in."

"You sure?" Sam answered lightly even though he was hurt that his partner was shutting him out again. They had made great strides in their partnership and Callen trusted him more than anyone in his life, accept maybe Hetty. Sam knew Callen would always have his back and would in no uncertain terms die for him if the situation called for it. However, even after all they had been though as partners, some really good and really bad times, Callen still was unable to freely accept help. Callen had been forced to take care of himself his entire life and because of that, had built strong, secure walls to keep people at arm's length. Over the years, as their partnership grew and strengthened, Sam had been able to breech Callen's barriers, but not always, and now was one of those times.

Callen softened a bit. "I get you want to help, but I need to be alone. To process this."

Not allowing his disappointment to color his voice, Sam said, "I get it. But do me a favor. Lay off the beer, take some aspirin, keep icing those hands, eat the Chinese food I left last night and try to get some rest. You need to eat, put something in your stomach before you crack that first beer, which…" Sam held up a hand, "I know you are going to drink even if I asked you not too."

Callen looked at him neutrally neither confirming nor denying that Sam was accurate in his prediction. Climbing out of the car he honestly said, "Thanks," then headed up the walk, unlocked the door, entered, then firmly shut it.

Sam sighed in frustration as his partner once again locked him out and went into lone wolf mood. Glancing up the street he noticed a car he had not seen earlier when they had pulled up in front of the house. It was very distinctive and seeing it made Sam smile. Seems his partner would not be going so lone wolf on him after all; the Calvary had arrived. Sam chuckled as he drove off thinking his partner should have taken him up on his offer to come in; plan B was probably going to be a lot tougher.

-NCIS-LA-

Once in the house, Callen threw his keys and the ice pack on the kitchen counter while making a beeline for the fridge. Opening the door, he winced as the cold air hit his abraded skin as he reached for a cold beer. Suddenly, a second chill ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the refrigerator. Purposefully turning around, he drew his weapon and peered cautiously about the kitchen. Gun extended, he silently glided across the floor and headed towards the living room. There, on his new couch, he found what had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.


	11. Chapter 11

_Last chapter. I think there are enough clues for you to figure out who the killer was in this story. _

_-NCIS-LA-_

"Hetty," he said flatly, holstering his weapon as he walked into his living-room.

Politely she replied "Good evening, Mr. Callen," from her perch on his sofa, hands folded primly in her lap, pocketbook on the floor at her feet.

"What are you doing here?" he queried, tilting his head to the side as if to cross-examine her.

"I got the distinct feeling you were avoiding me today at the office," she reprimanded wagging a slightly crooked finger at him.

Crossing to the lone chair in the room, Callen sighed and rolled his eyes as he sat down. He then proceeded to stare across the room at his diminutive Boss as she sat on his new couch, feet barely reaching the floor, eyes staring back at him behind her over-sized glasses. Silently, he watched her run her hand caressingly over the leather on the sofa. "Soft," she commented appreciatively. "Do you like it?"

Shrugging noncommittally he answered, "Slept on it last night."

"It is not a bed, Mr. Callen. It is couch; a place for guests to sit when they come to visit; to lounge on while watching a classic movie; perhaps even to neck on with an attractive woman," she replied rolling the 'n' on neck for emphasis.

"I don't own a TV, I'm not dating, and I don't have guests," he countered drily.

"Am I not a guest?" she asked in a mock-hurt tone.

A lot of answers ran thru his mind but he had the good sense not to say any of them aloud. Instead he simply stated, "I came home one day and the couch was here. You bought the couch."

"Well, technically, you bought it. I merely picked it out and arranged for its delivery. But it was your money that paid for it. It would be highly unethical for me, as your Boss, to buy you, my employee, an expensive gift unless it was a special occasion; even then a sofa would not fit within the guidelines of a 'token'. Have you learned nothing from your annual ethics training?" she asked in an exasperated manner.

Callen pondered how it was ethical for her to somehow access his bank account but once again good sense had him ask a different question. "What did this set me back?"

"Never fear. I waited for a sale and a good one at that," she assured him with a pleased smile on her face.

"And I'll bet you had a coupon," he mockingly added, smirking in return.

"But of course!" she sagely said.

"Ah-huh." Leveraging himself out of the chair with a groan he couldn't contain, he headed for the kitchen. "Wanna beer?"

"Do you have a glass to pour it in?"

Returning with two open bottles and holding one out to her, was his non-verbal reply. She exhaled as she took one of the bottles from him.

"Does this mean I'm going to come home some day and find a set of glasses in my cabinet? Compliments of my bank account?" he joked gingerly resuming his seat.

"Glasses are the mark of a civilized man, Mr. Callen."

Callen gave a short laugh. "A lot of people do not think there is anything civilized about me."

"Hmmmm," was her only comment as she took a sip of her beer than forlornly looked around for a place to set it down. Finally, precariously leaning forward, she placed it on the floor with a thoughtful look.

"No coffee tables Hetty," Callen warned worried by the look on his Boss and personal shopper's face.

His ninja manager held her hands up in mock surrender. "Heaven forbid." Settling back on the sofa, she studied her agent draped in his chair and came away worried. Physically, he was a mess; the skinned knuckles, the facial lacerations, favoring of the rib cage and right leg not to mention the bruises peeking out from under his t-shirt which had rode up on one side. His face might try to say otherwise, but the lines around his eyes were a dead give-away that he was in pain. As for his mental state, her 'Hetty-sense' told her, her top agent was deeply disturbed by the events of the day and was on the edge of losing it.

Callen continued to sit quietly in his chair and to the untrained eyes was projecting a casual, if slightly bemused attitude, that said, 'oh this is the game, one I have played before and the winning strategy has always been to humor her until she eventually goes away'. But Hetty knew the game too, so she countered by simply sitting there leaving the ball squarely in his court; she'd force him to make the next move.

Callen hunkered down to wait but after a time, it became clear the next move was his unless he wanted to sit there all night. So he drained his beer, placed it on the one and only end-table in the room, bit the bullet and went with deflection, "Want some Chinese food?" Without waiting for a reply, he pushed himself out of the chair and limped into the kitchen. "Sam brought it last night."

"Dare I ask if you have any plates or utensils? Or will I have to eat with my bare hands off the floor?" her facial expression indicating concern that she was about to enter into the world of uncivilized dining. Callen walked back into the living-room with two Chinese takeout cartons and a pair of chopsticks. Hetty gave a theatrical sigh. "Though I dread asking, would you have a microwave to warm our repast?"

Schooling his features into his 'see what a good boy I am' face, he replied, "I'm not a total savage, Hetty. Not only do I own a microwave but also a coffee pot. Still working on the coffee if," he finished with a lopsided grin, "you need an idea for your next purchase."

With a touch of distain, Hetty said, "You took both of those items out of the trash bin at work where they were placed because they no longer worked."

"And I fixed them," Callen replied smugly.

"Yes, but you miss the point; you didn't buy them. You appropriated them."

"I didn't say bought. I said 'owned'. Finders keepers. I was being fiscally responsible, like you with your coupons," and for a moment, Callen was incredibly pleased, feeling he had one upped Hetty in this round. "Kung Pao chicken or shrimp with broccoli?" he asked holding up the two containers.

"Chicken, if you please," she replied letting him have the win, this time. She enjoyed these verbal sparring matches; it helped bring out the lighter side of her agent, something that often got lost in the translation. His harsh upbringing had taught him to guard his back every moment; that letting your guard down, for even a second, could have serious repercussions, physically and mentally. Hetty felt it was part of her job to get him to drop his wariness, if only for brief instances, and enjoy the brighter side of life.

Reentering the kitchen, Callen positioned the white paper cartons in the microwave and pressed the minute plus button several times. While waiting for the food to warm, he procured another bottle of beer from the fridge and a half-full bottle of aspirin from the nearly-empty cabinet next to the sink. After shaking several little white pills into the palm of his hand, he flung them in his mouth followed with a long swig of beer.

"You should really take medicine with water and food or it will eat a hole in the lining of your stomach," his ever helpful Boss lectured-scolded from her post in the living-room. "And," she continued with her sermon, "Beer, while a liquid, is not the same as water." Being spiteful, Callen took a second, longer swig of beer. "Also," the voice-of-reason reminded, "It has been more than ten minutes. You might want to reapply the ice pack to your hands."

Callen had long-a-go stopped wondering how Hetty knew every conversation that passed between him and Sam. The agent glanced over at the wilted ice pack on his tile counter, then deliberately placed the cold, sweating beer bottle against his scraped knuckles. The stupidity of his defiance became immediately apparent as the droplets of water on the outside of the bottle, stung his open wounds. Biting the inside of his lip to avoid cursing aloud and alerting his boss to his foolishness, he quickly removed the offending object and wiped the excess moisture from his knuckles on the thigh of his jeans. The ever-helpful, all-knowing voice of his Boss, tormentor and mother-hen exclaimed, "Better spot those jeans before washing them or the blood won't come out." The wrinkles on his forehead intensified as he discovered that he now had blood on his jeans; the water from the beer bottle had caused his knuckles to start bleeding again and he had thoughtlessly wiped the blood on his jeans.

Scowling at this his latest feat of stupidity, Callen moved to the microwave and removed the warm food. Thank goodness the white cartons weren't too hot to handle; that was all he needed to do, to round out his repertoire of stupid tricks; drop their dinner on the floor. It still amazed him how Hetty knew what he was doing even when she could not see him; even worse was her ability to predict what he was going to do. He uncharitably thought that Hetty's ancestors must trace back to Salem, Massachusetts.

Still, the recalcitrant child in him ignored the ice pack, as he snagged his beer and the chopsticks, along with the food and strolled back into the living room.

"No napkin?" she asked innocently as he handed her the carton.

Callen expelled his breath out his nose, clenched his teeth, went back into the kitchen, grabbed the plastic bag from the counter which held all the odds and ends that a Chinese restaurant provides with takeout, carried it back to the living-room and dropped it in the floor by her tiny feet. "Napkins, hot mustard, fried noodles, soy sauce, duck sauce, almond and fortune cookies. Knock yourself out," he said drolly as he walked over to his chair, carefully sat down and ravenously dug into his food. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until a few minutes later when his chopsticks unexpectedly scraped the bottom of his container. Washing the last mouthful of shrimp down with a swig of beer, he guilty glanced over at his guest.

"I guess you were hungry," she noted mildly as she skillfully used her chopsticks to bring a dainty bite of chicken to her mouth. When she was finished chewing she added, "Eating fast is not good for one's digestion. You should learn to savor your food, preferably in a nice setting like, oh I don't know, at a dining-room table."

"No furniure of ANY kind, Hetty," he re-cautioned as he headed for the kitchen; he feared he would come home to a dining-room full of furniture next if the ninja had her way. Rummaging around the fridge to see what else Sam had bought, he found two egg rolls and some rice. The rice was too boring without anything to put on it so he took the egg rolls, along with his third beer of the night and went back into the lion's den.

Hetty gave him a disapproving scowl as he resumed his seat. Callen cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "What? The third beer or the fact I didn't heat up the egg rolls? What culinary faux pas and I committing now?"

Hetty merely shook her head sadly as she continued to eat her food. Being a bit bratty, Callen took a huge bite of the cold egg roll and washed it down with a large mouthful of beer all while staring antagonistically at his boss.

After polishing off the egg rolls and the beer, the agent relaxed in his chair to let them digest. The tension he had carried around all day began to gradually seep out of his body; whether from the food, the company or the three beers, he didn't know, but it felt wonderful. Laying his head against the chair's cushioned back, he let go of his tight grip on life, something he did not allow himself to do often. He sensed Hetty finishing her food then taking the empty carton to the kitchen to dispose of it, before returning to her perch on the couch; the perfect house guest who cleaned up after herself.

The duo remained locked in silence for a while, though Callen could feel her eyes resting upon him, patiently waiting. Finally he said, "You want to know about today."

"Yes," she quietly replied.

"I told Sam buying those sneakers was a bad idea," he said before running his hands over his face and thru his hair. He sighed as he opened his eyes then led her thru the events of the day. As the agent talked, the tension, momentarily banished, returned in full force. "I thought it was a simple case," he said, wrapping up his dialogue. "Mixed up kid. We talked. Thought we were good. But then… Damn it," he paused, fighting desperately to keep his composure. Rapid breathing punctuated his final sentence. "That note was for me. Whoever killed that kid did it because of me. Some sort of sick, very personal message."

"And that message was from whom?" Hetty probed gently.

Callen went very still thinking back to the phone call he had received on the hotel balcony with Sam; this had his MO written all over it. However, Callen schooled his face into a blank mask, though he eyes burned with fury and said "I don't know."

Hetty didn't believe her agent for a moment. She was by no means stupid and she knew for a fact her agent had an idea who was behind this murder. She also knew he had no intention of telling her…yet.

Hetty knew it was her job to steer this conversation back to safer ground; get her agent away from the precipice he was teetering on, in serious danger of falling into the horrific abyss. "Are you sure that note was written to you? Perhaps it was just a coincidence, an unfinished thought as the officer proposed."

Raising his head, his ice-cold stare bore directly into her eyes. "You know that is bullshit Hetty; in our business, 90% of 'coincidences' are realities." He grimaced and clenched his fists, ignoring the pain from his knuckles. "Also," he added giving her the tiniest of scrap of Intel, "There was something Joel said that I didn't follow up on," Callen added, clearly beating himself up for being sloppy. "No. Someone was trying to get to me… and they have," he concluded, eyes narrowing and growing even harder. "They were trying to get my attention and they definitely have it now."

Hetty inwardly shuddered knowing her agent had just crossed over into a very dangerous place. She'd seen him like this before and each time it had frightened the nearly unflappable Hetty. She knew in the deep dark recesses of Callen's soul, where right and wrong were polar opposites with no middle ground; this was the place where he could easily lose himself and his life. In his private tormented world, the one Callen had just passed into and locked the door firmly behind him, there were only two choices, get the enemy or die trying; no compromise. In the past, when Callen went to this dark place, the only thing that had released him was the resolution of the problem; in this case it would be the capture and preferably lethal removal of this killer. Until that was accomplished, Callen's fortress, built and reinforced by his upbringing, his profession and his basic self, would remain impenetrable by anything or anyone; he was now operating in his ultimate lone wolf mode.

What truly made her blood run cold was the knowledge that Callen's incredible skillset would allow him to find this killer. He would skillfully manipulate everyone and everything around him to accomplish his goal. She wasn't afraid for his team, he would die to keep them safe but there in lay the crux of the problem; so focused on the mission, Callen would let his life become an accidental casualty. In all her years of trying to guide, mentor and nurture this man, she'd never been able to truly convince him his life was worthwhile. Sadly, what made him a great operative also made him a walking time bomb.

Hetty had very few cards left to play. Like in poker, she had chosen and discarded her cards very carefully so far, trying to build a solid hand. Cards such as Sam, who loved and watched over Callen like an older brother; not afraid to kick his ass and show tough love when the situation called for it; but also to there with genuine love and support, to pick up his fallen brother without judgment, when required.

Kensi, who like a sister, brought out the protective and compassionate side in Callen; who taught her older brother that women were to be respected; that they could be both soft and deadly at the same time; who didn't always get her older brother, but loved him anyway.

Deeks, the younger impulsive brother that made the older one realize he had to set a good example, less his younger brother follow him down the dark path into destruction; the younger brother who showed that even in the darkest times there was room for lightness; the younger brother who idolized his older sibling, but wasn't afraid to bust his chops; the one that showed him that life should be lived to the fullest.

Last, but not least, perhaps in the role as the trump card, herself, the mother figure, the Boss whose hands on the reins tried to subtly guide and direct; not afraid to give a hard yank on the leather, when required, to keep her protégée on the right path. The master weaver who tried to keep all the strands of her crazy family untangled, yet woven into a material that was stronger and more resilient than the individual pieces; knowing if one strand started to unravel, the whole tapestry could crumble into dust. That was her mission, that was her life and she had been good at it so far.

So in response to her agent's dark comment, she calmly stated, "We will get him, Mr. Callen," fingers crossed and praying she could guide her family through the upcoming firestorm; she realized some might get singed, but hopefully no one would get incinerated.

Picking up her purse, she slid off the couch, slowly walked over to her favorite agent and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We will get him," she repeated earnestly, giving him a small pat. Turning, she headed for the front door, but paused before leaving to take one last look at her agent. "Tomorrow is another day. Get some rest, Mr. Callen," and with that, she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

The End


End file.
